JAMES MORENA holds an MFA in Creative Writing. His stories or essays have appeared in the North American Review, StoryQuarterly, Another Chicago Magazine, storySouth, Orca, Litro Magazine, Pithead Chapel, and others. He has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and was a finalist for The Iowa Review’s The Jeff Sharlet Memorial Award for Veterans.
I went to the motel to kill him. Or, maybe just to sneak up behind him and sucker punch him in the back of the head, then stomp his ribs. To, at a minimum, follow him to his ATM and stand really close so that he would feel extremely uncomfortable: like I might spy his pin number, like I might laugh at his account balance, like I might steal his maximum daily withdrawal. Either way, I wanted him to see me seeing him.
It was easy to find where he lived. Like him, I sleuthed the internet. Unlike me, he had no social media, no footprint on the world wide web, no means of confirming his current job. But, could that obituary in North Carolina be his? Nope. Too old. I found him on the website Court Case Lookup. There were three variations of his name: no middle initial, a middle initial of an A, and a suffix of III. I knew he had once filed a restraining order against a man who had assaulted him, so I used that court-case spelling to locate the low-income motel that had multiple lawsuits against him. It seemed like something he would be navigating after having quit his job without another one waiting.
I slow rolled into the parking lot. I had my starter cap pulled low. My seat laid back so that the top of my hat was the only thing that an observant pedestrian could witness, could remember if called to testify. Eminem blared from my speakers and I bounced to and bobbed with and mouthed about having one shot and if I was going to take it. I connected with Marshall Mathers: his anger, his desire, his age. He had wanted to hurt someone; I wanted to hurt this guy. He had an absentee father; my father was horrible. He had a stalker and I had a stalker, whom I was planning to kill.
Kill might not be the right term. Maim or mangle. Incapacitate or disfigure. Something to let him know that I had spent so many nights awake because of him. I had scanned my front- and back-yard, distressed about the idea that he would follow through on his menacing threats. I had looked over my shoulder when leaving work, the house. I had checked my rear- and side-view mirrors in town, on highways. I had surveyed restaurants, gas stations, my neighborhood. My anxiety gushed. Even my wife and I lost precious family time as we often spoke about him:
“I hope the police catch him,” she had said.
“I hope he gets help,” I had said.
“What’d you do to him?”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“Then why’s he so mad?”
I circled the lot. I had no idea which room was his. Was it the one with the tin foil covered windows; was it the one with the string of red and green chili-pepper lights; was it the one with an oversized HD television displaying basketball? I observed the vehicles: trucks with dangling plastic testicles, cars with broken passenger-side windows, pristine high-end models with luxury wheels. “What the heck?” I said. “Who lives here?” I wished I remembered his car’s make and model from when we had worked together. I continued around a few times. I scouted the best spot and decided upon one near the double doors where people were exiting.
“What did I do to you?” I said, which was a question I had been asking myself over and over.
I parked backward. It seemed like the right thing to do. I wouldn’t need to crane my neck. I wouldn’t have limited vision through my rear-view mirror. And it seemed cool to be one of the only cars facing the other direction. Besides, if I needed to hurry away, I could do so without having to intentionally check both ways or having to creep out of the spot for fear of running over the wrong person.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I said. But not with conviction. I wasn’t that harrowing and, realistically, I was nervous about bumping into him.
Could I really kill someone? I thought.
There were motel employees—front desk attendants with too-big, blue polo shirts; housekeepers pushing understocked carts; and handy persons power washing the sidewalks and building—everywhere. I didn’t want them coming to question my presence. I didn’t want to make a commotion. I didn’t want my stalker to see me banished for loitering on his turf. So, I slinked into my seat.
I turned off my gray, four-door Jeep. I was afraid my idoling might draw attention. The constant carbon monoxide polluting the air. The out-of-place low hum. And, I didn’t want to waste gas since I was on leave from my job and money was tight while HR investigated the horrendous allegations my stalker had called and emailed to authorities.
“How long will this take?” I had asked HR.
“We’ll let you know,” HR said.
“What does that mean?” I said while I paced my living room.
“Have a great day,” HR said, then hung up.
I pulled my backpack from the backseat and removed the books that I had checked out from the library: American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis, If I Did It: Confessions of the Killer by O.J. Simpson and Pablo Fenjves, and In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. Books I hadn’t and didn’t plan to read. But books that would instill fear into my stalker if he happened upon my passenger-side window and spotted the titles just lingering on the seat.
“I want to kill this dude,” I said.
I began to wonder as I sat there. I considered all of our interactions. I reconfigured some mental puzzle pieces: Should I have said this instead; should I have allowed him to sit and do nothing while others worked; should I have been a better friend? Is that what he really wanted? A friend. I didn’t know then that this is where we would be. What was I supposed to have done?
I pulled my notebook from my backpack. I had promised my wife that I would stay home and clean the house and, perhaps, start a hobby.
“You need to relax,” she had said.
“This is bullshit,” I said.
“Of course it is,” my wife gathered her things for work, “but you sitting around doing nothing but thinking about the injustice of it—”
“Injustice?”
“Unfairness, corruption, tyranny—”
“What century are we in? Who uses these words? Tyranny?”
“They’re common words.”
“Right. If we were colonialists.”
“Anyway,” she retrieved her lunch from the fridge, “what’re you doing today?”
“I don’t know. Maybe write poetry—”
“Poetry?”
“I’ve always wanted to try it.”
My wife side-eyed me. Then she went on for fifteen minutes grilling me about my desire to write. Her inquiries offended me because I felt like she was challenging my cleverness, my knowledge of contemporary poems, and my ability to connect with readers.
“Readers?” she had said. “Are you planning to publish your poems?”
“I might.”
“Do you even—”
“Have a great day,” I said, then I added, “at work.”
As she walked out the door, my wife smiled at me. She hugged me. She told me how proud she was of me to pursue a creative hobby and that she couldn’t wait to read my poems.
“I can’t wait for you to read them either,” I had said, then I closed the door.
While sitting and waiting, I pulled my phone out to do an internet search: must-read poems today. Between glancing up to see who was exiting and entering the motel—old people with canvas bags, young people in pajama pants, and others with oxygen tanks—I read poems about immigration and solitude and gender. My search led to me reading poems by Maya Angelou and Danez Smith and a staggered sentence about the use of a wheelbarrow.
“Who reads this stuff?” I said. “Is it even a poem?”
I placed my notebook on my lap. I slid my phone into my pocket. I leaned my head against the headrest. I stared at the double doors. I lowered and raised the car’s sun visors. I adjusted the mirrors. I wet my hand with water from my water bottle then wiped dust from the dashboard. I wiped the black dirt onto my jeans.
I started when I heard a horn blare. I must have fallen asleep. I struggled to pull myself upright because at some point I had laid my seat all the way down, pulled a purple blanket onto my lap. My hands grasped the steering wheel. I searched for the source of the blare. I searched for the person who would want me to leave. I pulled my ball cap down over my eyebrows. I heard Tejano music from across the parking lot. I started the car. I slammed the gas. My wheels squealed as I sped away.
When I got home, I picked up toys and books and misplaced shoes. I vacuumed the bedrooms, washed the dishes, then copied random poems from the Poem Hunter website, a site that I knew my wife wouldn’t peruse. When she returned from work and after we ate dinner, she lavished me with joy and praise as I read to her my plagiarized words.
For three weeks, my wife took joy in my writing. She couldn’t believe my depth of feelings and knowledge of diasporas and that I had struggled with my identity as a child. “Why didn’t you ever tell me,” she said. My wife reflected on my poem that revealed my first period, but I had to explain that my first period was a metaphor for something larger.
“If you’re not going to look beyond the surface,” I said, “I’m uncomfortable reading you my work.”
“You’re right, dear,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
My wife empathized with my religious persecution, my lost family members whom she had never met, and my missing left leg.
“Again, I’m using symbolism,” I said.
“I didn’t know that you knew how to do that,” she said.
For three weeks, I hid in the shadows of one of the motel’s trees. I had to park a little farther away but since the days were getting warmer, I relished the little bit of shade afforded me. At 9:00 a.m. I parked under a tree near the rear of the motel. Two hours later, I moved to a different tree near the front.
When the sun started its downward fall, I again parked near the double doors. Each time I made sure to park in a way that allowed for me to observe everyone’s comings and goings.
Sitting and waiting gave me time to think: Was I crazy? Should I again call the cops to see what had progressed with my case? At first I didn’t want to call the police because I was pretty sure I knew who my stalker was. But I had to call the police. I had to inform them. My stalker had scared my wife, had scared me. No matter how many times I updated the online Phone Harassment Report and pleaded,“When is someone going to investigate on my behalf?”the police ignored me, so I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands. Because, what sort of coward becomes a stalker?
During this time, I also noticed that this one guy would take smoke breaks at exactly the same time each day: 10:30 a.m., 1:15 p.m., 3:34 p.m.. Who smokes real cigarettes anymore? I wondered. He was a very large man with a ratty beard. He wore a dirty T-shirt and tight shorts. He, too, used a rolling walker with a wide seat. I felt bad because when I first paid attention to him, I believed that he was going to collapse the medical device when he sat on it. I thought, There’s no way it’s going to hold. But it did.
The man never spoke to anyone who came or went. He never waved high or gave a chin lift. Not even an employee of the motel said hello or good morning to him. Instead, he often looked away when others approached, which I understood and which made it weird when I discerned him watching me. It was around lunchtime and I was sitting in my car eating a homemade vegetarian Cuban sandwich: hoagie roll slathered with spicy mustard, veggie sausage, veggie ham, melted swiss cheese, and pickles, that I had smashed between two cast-iron skillets since I hadn’t yet purchased a panini press. I had been making my wife and me better lunches because I had become bored with peanut butter and jelly or cheese and mayo on white bread.
“These sandwiches are great,” my wife had told me after my second week off and after I had made different sandwiches: egg salad, kimchi grilled cheese, a tofu banh mi; and after I had used Italian-style rolls, focaccia, and Filipino pandesal bread.
“I’m trying something different,” I said.
“Wow. Poetry and food.” She stared into my eyes. “I’m impressed.”
I told her I had plans to make a jackfruit barbecue sandwich with a broccoli slaw and to make my own aiolis and tapenades and perhaps a homemade ciabatta.
“See. You being off has been a good thing.”
“Right. Me being off because I’m accused of human trafficking. How’s that even—”
“That’s not—”
“Right. I don’t even know what, how does that even—”
“Come on I—”
“Whatever.”
“I just meant—”
“I know,” I said, “I know what you meant.” Then I slunk back to the kitchen to create the next day’s lunch.
A few days after I spotted the very large man watching me, he shouted something, and he waved for me to come to him. “Hubba, what?” I said. I hadn’t heard what he yelled because my windows were rolled up, and I was eating a tomato sandwich with roasted garlic and a basil aioli while reading Lotería by Esteban Rodriguez, which I thought was clever as each poem revolved around one of the fifty-four cards in the traditional Mexican board game of chance. When the very large man, who was still sitting, inched his way toward me, I put my food and book down, started my car, and left.
The next day, I chose not to park in the shadows. I feared that the very large man was going to notice me again. I found a parking space some distance away but in an inconspicuous location that still allowed for me to monitor the doors. At 10:30, the man rolled out for his smoke. I watched him scan the tree where I would have normally been parked. He looked disappointed. His shoulders dropped. His eyes watched the ground. At 1:15, the man rolled out and again he seemed saddened that I wasn’t under the other tree. At 3:34, I mouthed, I’m sorry, as I watched the very large man smoke with less vigor than he had in previous days.
A couple days went by and the same thing happened: the very large man searched but was left dismayed. I began to feel ashamed. I felt like his happiness, for some odd reason, was tied to him seeing me. So, I decided that I would follow my old routine of parking under the trees. I didn’t know what it would achieve, but I hoped that he would no longer seem so distraught.
“Hey,” the very large man shouted, a smile covering his face.
I don’t know why, but I had chosen to crack my window.
“Hey,” he said, “why don’t you come here?”
I sat very still. I only moved my eyes as I scoured for someone hiding in the bushes. I wondered: What if my stalker knows I am here; what if they are in cahoots and have a plan to attack me; what if this guy can really walk or even run and he’s going to tackle me if I come close?
What’re you doing? I said to myself without moving my lips.
“Hey, you in the Jeep,” the man said. He lifted his large right arm and waved at me. “Come over here. I ain’t gonna bite.”
The very large man looked like he started to giggle at his own words. This gave me goosebumps. I shivered. My face scrunched. I started my car, drove in the opposite direction, watching him—signaling for me to stop with both hands—from my rearview mirror as I made my way to the library to return my overdue books.
A week went by and the same things happened: I read books of poetry; I ate different sandwiches; I copied poems into my notebook and represented them as my own; my wife went crazy for the sandwiches but less so for my poetry, which hurt my feelings; and the very large man continued to notice me.
“What’s wrong with you?” I said to myself in the car during the second week of him harassing me.
I no longer tried to remain statuesque. I didn’t care if this guy could read my lips or hear me when I shouted at my windshield.
“Why’re you bothering me?” I said.
I wanted to flip him off, make a rude gesture, do something—turn over, pull down my pants, show him my ass—that would let him know that I wasn’t okay with him trying to get my attention. The large man had pissed me off, so I turned on my car and turned up Eminem. I sang along about wanting fame but also wanting to be left alone.
“Leave me alone,” I shouted at the very large man. “You fucking disgust me.”
I watched him stiffen. I watched him inch his way into the double doors. Head down.
I felt sad.
I didn’t see the dude at his 1:15 or 3:34 smoke times. The next day, I parked away from the trees. I thought this change would let the guy know that we weren’t friends. Don’t you know I’m here to kill my stalker? I thought. I didn’t see the very large man all day. I didn’t see him the next day or the day after that or a week later.
“Where did you go?” I said.
Each new day, I circled the parking lot, looking for other places where someone might smoke. I varied the times that I arrived in hopes of seeing if he had changed his schedule: 7:45, 9:20, 11:11, and so forth. I parked across the street at a different motel, then snuck over to the double doors. I wore hoodies and baggy pants. I wore skinny jeans and button-up shirts. I dressed in a blue polo to blend in with the motel staff, but the very large man had disappeared.
“Where’re you going?” my wife asked.
“I’m meeting up with some friends,” I said, “from work.”
“At 11:30 at night?”
“Well, they’re not actually supposed to see me during this time period.” I continued to dress in my dark-blue sweats. “But they wanted to catch me up on things.”
“Couldn’t they’ve just called you?”
“I cannot just sit here all day,” I said, “writing poetry and having no human interactions. Do you know what that does to the soul?”
“Huh?” my wife said. “Writing poetry?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said, then walked away.
That night, I went back to the motel. I wondered if something had happened to the very large man. I wondered if he had injured himself because he no longer saw me out there.
“Did I somehow kill this man?” I said to myself. “I hope he’s okay.”
Before turning into the motel parking lot, I turned off my lights. I crept through the rows of cars. I turned off the radio and rolled down the window.
“Where are you?” I said.
I parked. I got out of the car. I meandered by the windows. I saw little kids tucked into their beds. I saw flickering TVs. Someone was microwaving their dinner. There was a couple sitting by their door smoking weed. A dog was standing on a couch barking. I got back into my car. I parked under one of the motel’s trees. After an hour, I parked under another tree.
“What’ve I done?” I said.
I wanted to cry.
There was a tap on my window. I sprang forward.
“Wake up, sir,” I heard someone say.
I looked up to see a person’s waist with a gun belt attached to it. I noticed the 9mm and portable radio and expandable baton. I took note of the pepper spray and handcuffs.
“Step out of the car,” the police officer said.
I got out of the car.
“What’s going on? I must have fallen asleep,” I said.
“Do you live here?”
“No, sir.”
“Why’re you here?” the officer said.
I noticed a second police officer on the other side of my car. She had her hand on her gun, but the gun was still in its holster. Her body was tense. Her eyes were locked.
I wanted to tell them that I had been coming here to find my stalker who lived somewhere in this motel, but I haven’t yet identified which room. Do you have any new information? I considered asking them. I wanted to tell the police officers that I had been sitting in the parking lot for weeks, watching people come in and out of the double doors. I thought that they needed to know about my poetry writing and my sandwich making. I wanted to tell them that I was searching for a very large man who may have disappeared. That I had been hiding under trees and parking across the street and that I had been listening to rap music and checking out library books. But I didn’t say anything. Instead, I put my hands in the air.
Volume 15.1, Winter 25
James Morena
